


Somewhere Only We Know

by RedgraveQueen



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:39:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedgraveQueen/pseuds/RedgraveQueen
Summary: Another totally AU story! Bernie Wolfe is a writer who travels to the seaside in search of inspiration. The resort is somewhat disappointing but she find an unexpected muse in the form of vibrant landlady Serena Campbell.I hope you enjoy! This is totally different so I’d really appreciate comments and reviews!





	1. Bernie’s arrival

Chapter 1- Bernie’s POV.

My feet ache after walking for what has felt like an age. I have no choice but to set down my bags and perch (on the very edge) of a cold, rusty, seafront bench. I rest for a few minutes then dare to turn around and take in my surroundings once again. I sigh as the bustling promenade comes into view and decide I have been well and truly misinformed on this destination. I’ve travelled hundreds of miles to the North of England in search of an idilic seaside destination to fuel my imagination and aid my writing. Instead I’ve landed myself in this busy, impossibly loud coastal town, littered with gaudy amusement arcades, seedy bars and droves upon droves of humans who look like they’ve stepped straight of the set of shameless.

I retrieve my woolly scarf from my travel bag and wrap it snugly around my neck- the sea breeze is becoming most cruel as the evening draws in. In the hour I have spent wandering aimlessly, pondering and wondering- the ocean has retreated to reveal a good quantity of the beach. It’s not as pebbled and quaint as I had hoped but it’s a beach nether the less. I try to force myself to think positively, to look on the bright-side. That has never been my strong point. 

I cross the road and notice that the clientele has changed. The majority of the noisy families have disappeared, scantily clad adults (many in tacky, novelty Hen and Stag do gear) taking their place. It’s too late to give up and go home. I shall have to find suitable accommodation for the night then re- evaluate my plans in the morning. My solitude in the coming darkness does not bother me nor do the drunken revellers that surround me. I have always been a lone wolf. But I am long overdue a decent meal and I crave the comfort of a warm bed. I make my way through several layers of gift shops and arcades to the backstreets that are home to many a B&B and hotel. 

The grey maze like streets are lined with litter and punctuated by groups of junkies propped in dimly lit doorways. I wince as I cross yet another prospective B&B off my mental list. This is certainly not what I had anticipated. Everything is so grey, so... down trodden? I have never considered myself a ‘snob’, in fact before now, I would perhaps be offended by the idea but I cannot imagine spending a night (let alone eating) in any of these places. I check my watch and try not to be alarmed. 10:20. I’m going to be walking the streets all night at this rate! Is it too late to summon a taxi, would I make the last train? Probably not. I retrieve my phone from my pocket to discover that the battery is flat so any remaining hope of escape is well and truly scuppered. Bugger.

I decide I better try a new tac-tic. Stray from the beaten track. It’s almost pitch black now and what were once light occasional raindrops are now coming down in torrents. Most people would have reached ‘panic point’ some time ago. Luckily I do not share the same traits as ‘most people’. I must admit though, the trailing has become tiresome and the groups of increasingly drunken males have begun to unnerve me somewhat. Lucky they become less frequent as I wander further away from the seafront, further into the darkness. My plan so far has not been fruitful but the noise level has reduced considerably and for me, that is a huge bonus. Still, non of the B&B’s here show signs of life. Apart from one, at the end of a particularly down trodden row of buildings. There are lights on in the foyer, so I venture closer, for a proper look. One thing that strikes me immediately is that this guest house is the first that I’ve seen that does not accommodate filthy, off white net curtains in each of the windows. The drainpipes are leaking and the gate is as rusty as the others. But through the window I have spotted a real log fire. I am cold and tired. I am sold. 

The front door is unlocked but I’m unsure as to whether I should knock and wait anyway. Is that what you’re supposed to do? I tap gently to no avail, so I step inside into an unoccupied but brightly lit foyer. The decor makes me smile and cringe in equal measures. It is busy and rather tacky but fun and for the first time since I arrived gives me a real feel for the seaside. 

“Hello? Are you wanting a bed?” 

I jump and whirl around in search of the faceless voice. 

“Hello?” 

A woman’s head rises up from behind the reception desk (that I had previously thought unoccupied). She has dark, greying hair, cut into a stylish crop and apart from the mascara smudged under her sleepy eyes, she’s well made up. Like the decor, he clothes are ‘false extravagant’. Cheap but made to look otherwise. Nether the less, as she sways from behind the desk- I must admit- she wears them rather well. 

I suddenly become aware that I’m staring perhaps a little to intently and move my gaze away for a few seconds. 

“Are you wanting a room or have you rocked up here just to stand in my foyer gawping at me?” 

The woman’s smile is beginning to fade and she drums her fingers impatiently on what I presume is her booking file. I cant help but notice it’s rather empty. 

“Yes so business is slow, what of it? It’s the end of the season!”

She snaps. She follows me gaze around the room. 

“Not good enough for you am I? Though surely you didn’t rock up in Blackpool expecting a palace? If you did, you’re bloody deluded! My place is the cleanest for miles. Only place you’ll get a decent breakfast!” 

I don’t take kindly to rudeness and it takes everything in me not to turn on my heel and venture back out onto the street. The wet, dark, miserable street. The thought of that is not one I want to cling onto and on reflection, perhaps I was the one being rude. 

“No. Sorry... I was just...yes. I’d like a room. Please. That would be great.” 

The woman leads me up a flight of stairs that creak uncomfortably with every step. Although it is dimly lit- the landing is not dissimilar to the foyer- colourful and bright and littered with a whole host of seaside related pictures and artefacts. 

I am shown into a small room at the end of the corridor. I’m a little surprised as the woman follows me in. She surveys the room and begins making adjustments. She keeps the lights dimmed but flicks on the lamps at either side of the double bed that takes up a good quantity of the room. 

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a sea view”  
She says with hint of amusement to her voice. She fiddles with the curtain ties while I hover awkwardly in the doorway. That’s what I dislike about little guest houses like this. It’s all too... personal. 

“Ok. You should be warm enough but there’s a spare duvet in the wardrobe if not. I serve breakfast between 8 and 10. If you need anything else, my living space is up the stairs... in the attic.” 

“Thank-you. You’ve been most hospitable.”

I say gratefully. 

For a reason unbeknown to me, an amused smile flashes across her face once again.


	2. Serena’s musings

Chapter 2- Serena’s POV 

After the utterly boring day I’ve endured, the evening has taken a rather more interesting turn. Business is slow at the moment (always is at this time of year) and only a few of my rooms are occupied. the winter months hit everyone in the hotel industry hard but I find the long cold lonely months particularly gruelling. I like to be in the centre of people, families, noise. Quiet does nothing for me- Ive never understood why people romanticise it. Some even claim they long for it. Perhaps if they experienced true silence they would be cured and seek comfort in the exact opposite instead. like I do. 

I was just about the close the reception and call it a night when a woman turned up in the foyer. Her bedraggled appearance told me she’d clearly been out in the rain for a considerable amount of time. Usually, late night clients are hen party groups; too drunk to make their journey home; who show complete disregard for my rules and party into the night, disturbing my other guests and inducing complaints. My least favourite bookings. I was relieved to see that this woman was alone and she wasn’t staggering or slurring in the slightest. In fact: she spoke rather slowly, in a posh accent- her voice low. Looking past the rain flattening her hair and soaking her clothes, she was impossibly good looking; with deep dark eyes contrasting beautifully with her blonde curls and ivory skin. Her clothes were plain and rather modest but impeccable and if my judgement is correct, expensive. 

She was a far cry from my usual clientele. Merry holiday makers and giddy drunks- usually chatty and friendly; eager to discuss the colourful events of their day in this vibrant seaside town. On reflection, my short conversation with my newest guest was rather stilted and odd. She met my eye for only as long as necessary and clearly saw no need for pleasantries. 

At first I decided that perhaps she see’s this place as below her. Normally that would make my blood boil. My guesthouse isn’t perfect, I know that. But I’ve spent the best part of twenty years building it up from nothing and snobbery isn’t welcome. 

But what gives me the right to be presumptuous? Perhaps there is another explanation for her unusual nature and besides... I’ve found myself strangely intoxicated by her. I noticed a certain vulnerability behind her eyes. Perhaps it was merely down to trailing around in such poor weather conditions- desperate for accommodation. I must be going soft.  
But why would a woman like her be alone and trailing around the back streets of Blackpool in the rain? 

I’ve always prided myself on doing my very best to make my guests as comfortable as possible but I lingered around this woman for as long as I could busy myself plumping cushions and adjusting curtain ties. I was desperate for her to offer me some kind of insight into who she is or why she’s here. (yes, I really am that bored). But she gave me nothing, no juicy narrative- no scandal to liven up the cold, slow night ahead. She just stood awkwardly in the doorway, swaying from foot to foot. 

The woman clearly has no social skills at all.


	3. Fireworks

Chapter 3- Bernie’s POV  
I wait by the door until the footsteps have faded away. The room I have been situated in is fairly small but quite ample seeing as there’s only one of me. As per the rest of the house the decor is somewhat mismatched but I must admit, it has a delightfully cozy feel to it. The colour scheme is warm and bright, deep reds contrasting with more subtle lilac tones- complemented by the occasional hint of dusty pink. My cream and beige flat seems rather bland in comparison. 

I settle myself crossed legged in the centre of the bed (that takes up most of the floor space) and haul my small green case up beside me. I retrieve my notebook and open it up to the first of 200 blank pages. I left London because I’d run out of inspiration. Nearly 250 mikes haven’t altered that and I’m beginning to wonder if anything will. Perhaps my three semi-successful novels spell my limit. Perhaps I should do what my mother has always been so bloody insistent on and find myself a proper job. Mind you, her wishes depicted me settling down in a semi with a husband and three kids. The thought of a man makes me nauseous and it’s too late for the latter. Though the thought of that has always made me feel decidedly nauseous too. 

My eyes flit around the busy room. 

Suddenly something catches my attention. The picture above the dresser. It depicts a collection of rainbow coloured fireworks, busting over the dark ocean. Quite spectacular! I’d previously thought it a photograph but on closer inspection I realise that it is in fact a painting. There is a signature at the bottom. I get up to see if I can decode it. 

It is actually signed quite clearly: S Campbell.

It was painted by the landlady. I am  
Mightily impressed! She has some real talent. The picture looks so real- so wonderfully detailed! 

I can almost imagine myself there. Standing in the bitter cold darkness, watching the beautiful scene in the sky, hearing the crashes and bangs reigning over the hush of the ocean. I pick up my pen and begin to write. 

I remain in that same position, bolt up right on the bed, for longer than I intended to- pen working ferociously against the paper, my eyes darting between my notebook and the picture. The fantastic, transfixing piece of art that is allowing me to create my own. 

The dull ache in my spine is becoming rather distracting and eyes are beginning to water and blur. Perhaps it’s time to call it a night. Sleep does not come easy to me. My usual tactic is to continue in whatever I’m doing: working, reading, writing, until my body demands sleep and I can fight no longer. Tonight I feel I may have passed that limit. It’s been a long day! 

I undress slowly, leaving my clothes in a pool on the floor. I’m too tired to unpack so I kick my case under the bed. Space is limited. I catch sight of myself in the full length mirror as I struggle into pair of Pyjama bottoms. I curse myself for allowing my back to seize up. I pause and run my hands over my visible hip bones and realise I haven’t eaten a morsel since breakfast time. I don’t find much pleasure in food so rather like sleep, I usually only indulge when my body demands it. I don’t deliberately skip meals, it’s just that sometimes by body forgets to demand.

I button up my top and slip under the heavy duvet. It weighs down around my body just enough to feel secure but not claustrophobic. Lovely. But to think the woman was concerned about me getting cold! Where does she think we are- the bloody arctic? 

I find it wonderfully relaxing, listening to the ferocious elements fighting outside, the rain beating angrily against the window while I lie warm and contented in this deliciously comfy bed. Dreams pass over me like waves. Gentle and controlled at first. Then hazy and mixed. Then shouting. 

I sit up slowly and rub my eyes as my brain becomes reacquainted with my senses. The shouting is real. A woman. Serena Campbell I think? A man. He sounds aggressive. I pull myself out of bed and fumble around the darkened room. Did I pack a dressing gown. SHIT. My foot meets with something hard, bringing tears to my eyes in this sleepy state. The shouting gets louder as the world becomes real again. 

The scene at the bottom of the stairs makes my stomach turn. A tall, broad shouldered man towers over the woman. He’s clearly plastered, slurring his words and stumbling from foot to foot as he tries to force his point upon her. 

“You can’t kick me out at this time? I’ve nowhere to go! This is a breech if my human rights, that’s what this is!” 

“You should have thought about that before you...” 

She clearly senses my presence as she stops mid sentence and turns around slowly. 

“Are you alright? Is this man giving you trouble?” 

I finish my journey down the stairs and move to stand by her side. 

“I want him out of here. If he doesn’t MOVE I’m going to call the police.”’

“Ah come on, you’re being rash! You wanted it... you’re asking for it wearing a top like that!” 

My blood runs cold. Before I know what I’m doing my hand meets with the scruff of his neck. My feet navigate the narrow hallway. He’s heavy but drunk- no match for me. The woman opens to door. I push with every ounce of strength in my body. 

Only once the door is locked and bolted does she turn to face me. There are tears in her eyes but the hints of a smile dance at the corner of her lips. 

“Thank- you... you crazy lady!” 

“Are you alright? Did he...? Are you ok?” 

I’m rubbish with things like this. Lucky she catches my drift and shakes her head hastily. 

“Oh I’m fine! Nothing like that. He was just getting over familiar-he tried to kiss me. His hands were all over. Vile! You’ve got some serious strength for such a slim woman?” 

There is a short silence as I try to form a response. Why can’t I just ‘chat’ like normal people? Why am I always so uncomfortable and closed off? I push the thoughts away. I’m 53, I’m not going to change. 

“Well. I’m glad you’re ok. I should get back to bed!” 

The woman looks somewhat disappointed as I turn to leave. Goodness knows why. Perhaps she is lonely? Shame- but i can’t help her. I’m not any sort of company. She offers more thanks, almost pleadingly as I begin to climb the staircase. I don’t turn back until I reach the top. 

“Erm.. I like your picture by the way. The one in my room. The fireworks.” 

I form what I hope is a friendly smile before I disappear back into solitude.


	4. A proposition

Chapter 4- Serena.

I wake up feeling thankful and humiliated in equal measures. Last night, ‘scary Steve’ (as he’s nicknamed by the locals) reared his ugly head and my beautiful, blonde guest threw him out for me; while I stood back and watched like some jumped up damsel in distress. I was most shocked. For such a slender woman, she has some real strength! 

I hear movement below me and check my watch. I better start thinking about starting breakfast. I change into my normal, plain black morning attire then decide I look a bit of a mess. I pull my new striped blouse over the top of my camisole. My hair is sticking out at odd angles, really rather unruly. I ought to get a cut I decide, as I drag my fingers through it and fashion myself a sort of quiff. Why am I fussing so much this morning? I don’t let myself follow that train of thought. I fear it doesn’t have a healthy or attainable destination. 

She probably wont even come down, far too odd and antisocial for a public dining room. 

I was wrong. When I arrive in the dining room she’s already there. Alone, a newspaper open in her lap. The sunlight from the widow hits her (now perfect) blonde curls beautifully. One side of her face is illuminated, the other shadowed and contoured. Really quite breathtaking. She jumps when she sees me and I curse myself for staring.

“Good morning! You’re an early riser...” 

I pause. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name yesterday?” 

She’d only put her surname on the booking form- preceded by Ms. 

She looks back down at her newspaper before meeting my gaze. Something has changed in her eyes and for moment I think she’s going to tell me to mind my own business. 

“B... Bernie. My name is Bernie. You?” 

I’m sure I told her my name. I’m almost offended that she’s forgotten. Why? She’s just a random guest. A random guest who has barely (if at all) left my mind since she arrived. And I haven’t crossed hers once. 

“I’m Serena. Nice to meet you!” 

I outstretch my arm to greet her. It’s the first time we’ve touched and a spark of electricity shoots up my spine. There’s something there. I don’t yet know what it is. Don’t yet understand. This woman does not feel like a stranger and I’m utterly perplexed by it. Have I seen her somewhere before? I must stop. I’m running away with myself, being a fantasist. This is not healthy. 

“Breakfast isn’t strictly served until 7 but I can make you a cup of tea? Or a coffee if you’d prefer?” 

I see her smile properly for the first time since I met her. She’s obviously a caffeine fan like myself. 

“Oh a coffee would be lovely, if you don’t mind?” 

“How do you take it? I don’t do anything fancy I’m afraid!” 

“Good. I don’t drink anything fancy!” 

“Strong and hot? That’s all I care about on a morning like this!” 

She nods smiles once again. Her features are extremely pretty when she smiles. 

I can see her from the kitchen. Strange but I can’t help myself watching her. I feel almost predatory and turn to face the other way. My head snaps back around Involuntarily when I hear her move. It’s as if I can’t take my eyes off her. I watch her struggle to her feet. Her back remains stooped for a few seconds, her face contorted in apparent pain. 

“Bernie? Are you alright?” 

I return to her side, placing two mugs of coffee on the table beside her. I find myself reaching out to steady her- another involuntary movement. 

“Bad back. I’ll be alright in a second...”

She wobbles away from my touch and lowers herself back onto a wooden dining chair. 

“What happened? Please don’t tell me you did it last night, throwing out Steve? I’m really grateful for that by the way. He’s a bloody nightmare!” 

“Oh you know him?” 

She looks intrigued now. 

“He’s a regular. Pops up searching for refuge when his missus chucks him out! Only sometimes I think he’s after a bit more than refuge, if you know what I mean!” 

She nods thoughtfully. 

“I hurt my back years ago. I go through spells of it being particularly troublesome. You don’t happen to have any pain killers?” 

I find myself standing behind her. 

“Where does it hurt? I’ll get you some painkillers. But I could take a look if you want? I trained as a chiropractor years ago. Well, I started. Never got chance to finish.” 

I must focus on the present, force my brain not to travel back there. Oh no. She looks uncomfortable. She’s stiffened. I wish I could take my words back. Why do I do this? I’ve only just met the woman and I’m all over her, requesting to massage her... my thoughts are interrupted by a simple: 

“Ok”. 

The knot in my stomach eases. My mind is flooded with pleasant images. Her on my bed, undressed from the waist up. gently flickering candles the only source of light. Lavender scented body lotion the only barrier between my hands and her smooth, bare skin. 

I want to close my eyes and dream. Because I know that it will not become reality. Not now anyway. Not ever. Why am I doing this? What is wrong with me? I must focus on the here and now. I lean down and run my hands over her back. Gently, slowly. I feel her shiver beneath my touch. 

“Show me where the pain is?” 

For a moment she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And then she moves. As far away from me as she can get. 

“I... I’m sorry, I can’t do this...I don’t have time. I have things to be getting on with. I’ll take my coffee up to my room if that’s ok.” 

I let her walk away. Then decide I can’t. 

“Bernie? Wait. Perhaps this isn’t the best place for a massage. Come up to my living quarters later? When you’ve finished...whatever it is you have to be getting on with?” 

What am I doing. We’ve never even engaged in proper conversation. I have no idea who she is. I have never before invited a B&B guest into my home! Who is she? What has she DONE to me?” 

She turns and appraises me carefully. 

“Yes?” 

“No...yes. Ok. If I finish my work...” 

“This evening? Say 7?” Will you have finished by then?” 

“Maybe.” 

She mumbles. Then, she is gone.


	5. Absurd

She wants to give me a massage. That beautiful, extraordinary, wonderfully glamorous woman wants to give ME a massage. I sit back for a moment and allow my subconsciousness to wander off on its own. My clothes are on the floor. Her warm hands are needing my aching muscles. Calming them. Bringing relief. Bringing peace. Peace. Have I ever experienced peace? I’m not even sure what it means. 

I remind myself of just how absurd I’m being. I would find no salvation in revealing my body to this woman. And I loathe physical contact. Intimacy is a concept that I have never managed to get my head around. I am not ashamed to admit- the mere thought of it terrifies the life out of me. I can barely remember the last time... I certainly didn’t enjoy it, I remember that much. Ever. I never enjoyed men. And I never allowed myself to consider an alternative. And I shan’t do so now. 

I ask myself, why has my mind drifted to ‘that’ kind of intimacy? It is not about that. I almost laugh at myself. I am mentally turning down something that has not been offered to me. The woman was merely offering to help reduce my pain- because she’s trained in just that. I am being totally absurd. 

I decide I better turn my hand to what I have come here to do. I retrieve my notepad from its new home in my bedside cabinet and re-read the passage I wrote last night. The passage inspired by the wonderful firework painting that adorns the wall before me. I observe that it is different from anything that I have ever written before, in a different style even. It is full of colour. Life. It is metaphorical and abstract. That is not me. I am linear and logical. The words have been formed by my hand but I struggle to fathom just how my ‘black and white’ brain managed to pour out such wonder and creatively. Until I realise that the wonder hasn’t come from me. It has come from the painting. From her. I try to put pen to paper once again but my efforts are fruitless. I am fidgety and distracted. 

I pull a jumbled assortment of papers out of my handbag and lay them out on the bed beside me. I often collect artefacts on my travels (such as tickets, flyers and articles) and use them as prompts, as information or even inspiration. I generally write about travel or crime so I find this method rather useful. A white slip catches my eye. It’s a sheet of information the landlady gave me when I arrived. I am embarrassed to find myself writing about a woman, sat on a hotel bed, pondering. But About what? 

I am pondering about how her hands would feel on my bare skin. Indulging myself, allowing myself to drift back in time to when she touched my back this morning. I am thinking about the sound of her deep, velvety voice. And I am terrified. I cannot allow this to happen, cannot allow this to consume me. This is dangerous. 

My clock shows six thirty. I am expected in her room in merely half an hour. I can’t do this, can I? I am shocked at my temptation. Do I really want to? I suddenly picture my pale body, strewn with scars and imperfections, bare and exposed before her. I remember how it feels when someone invades my personal space... when someone tries to get too close. I remember how I panic when people pry into my life and ask too many questions. I do not want that. But if I stay here I might be tempted to allow it. 

I must stay true to myself. I must keep my promise. I must not let her in. I must run.


	6. Fantasy

I sit down on my bed and draw in a deep breath. I’ve been busy with house keeping and various admin tasks and the day has passed in somewhat of a blur. My mind has been busy too, processing. The events of the morning have played over and over, so many times and in so many variations that I am struggling to remember exactly what occurred and what my brain has created. I pick up my mug of tea and have a long sip, endeavouring to gather my thoughts. The questions persist. What exactly is going on? Why won’t she leave my thoughts? She’s beautiful. Fascinating. But I’m straight. I am a heterosexual woman. Aren’t I? 

After much deliberation, I come to no conclusion and decide that perhaps I’m in the throes of some strange midlife crisis. 

I am still somewhat conflicted. Should I focus on the facts? See this woman for what she is- merely a guest in my B&B- one who’ll probably be gone before I know it? Or should I let my fantasy remain? Allow it to become a reality? I decide I am being self-indulgent (and perhaps a little insane) even considering that she might feel the same. She’s barely said two words to me since she arrived and although I’ve put that down to her being shy, perhaps she just has no interest in me whatsoever. No, I must not let this take hold. This is all one sided, all me. 

I set down my mug and glance at the clock. 6:30. Is she really going to take me up on my offer of a massage? I remind myself to remain realistic. She only (sort of) agreed because she is in pain and I told her I was a chiropractor and could relieve it. 

6:45. 

I smooth the duvet with my hand. I begin to wonder if my bed is a suitable place for the massage to take place but suppose I don’t have an option. I just hope the notion doesn’t send her running for the hills. 

A tantalising image suddenly floods my mind. She’s sprawled out on my bed, stark naked. She’s face down, her arms above her head, her legs slightly parted. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. It feels sort of sordid. But forbidden and exciting. What has this peculiar stranger done to me? 

The images persist. I’m stroking her smooth, warm skin. She moans gently as I wrap my leg over her waist. I’m straddling her now. Kneading her shoulders. 

The ‘real’ me has slipped beneath the duvet. I struggle then kick my jeans onto the floor as my hand ventures into my knickers. I’m suddenly desperate. The mental image of that gorgeous woman has taken over me. I feel as if I’ve been hit by a tsunami. Its as if nothing else matters except for her beautiful face, her silky hair, her perfect, slim body. I need to come for her. I need to come now. My hand is moving back and forth with haste, two fingers dipping inside me whenever I feel the need. I wish those fingers were hers. I wish this image was real. Her turning over, revealing two perfect, pert breasts- nipples hard and begging. Then the explosion. Intense and agonising. My legs are shaking. Beautiful but I’m still desperate. Desperate to see her, to touch her. 

I hear footsteps outside my door. 

Shit.

I try, with no avail, to make the duvet lie flat. 

There’s a knock. It’s gentle and unsure. 

I get up slowly, my insides swimming. She is here. I’m l regretting my former ‘activities’ immensely but I can’t deny the thought of rubbing her bare skin with my coated fingers is doing nothing to help my current state of arousal. 

“Bernie! Hi! Come in!” 

I stand back and let her pass me. I follow her gaze around the room and endeavour to read her expression. 

“I hope this is ok... I don’t really.. have anywhere else.” 

Her lips turn upwards and she nods once. I try to make small talk, ask about her work. Her answers are brief. She walks towards the bed then lowers herself onto it, removing her grey blazer and discarding it onto the floor. She’s sitting in the exact spot where... a few minutes earlier... 

Her eyes bore into me. Dark and still. For a moment, I am terrified that she’s reading my mind. 

“Should I... erm?” 

She points to the buttons on her blouse. For a moment I wonder if she’s requesting my assistance. She is not. She’s requesting my confirmation that removing her top is what require her to do. 

“Yes please. If that’s ok? Then lie on your front” 

She waits and I realise I’m staring so I turn to face the wall quickly. When I’m satisfied she is in position, I turn around and climb onto the bed beside her. 

A large white scar snakes across her pale skin. 

“Car accident. Years ago” 

Shit. It really is as if she’s read my mind. Don’t be stupid Serena. Of course, she knew I’d seen the scar. She knew I’d be wondering. 

“Ok.” 

I say simply, not having time to fathom something better. 

My hands meet with her soft flesh. She flinches and goose pimples spring up immediately. She makes a sound. I’m praying she can’t smell my arousal on my fingers.

“I’m going to start off really gentle ok? Just tell me if I go too deep- or if you feel any pain.” 

She grunts to acknowledge her understanding. 

I run my hands over her skin slowly. 

The scar is fascinating. Beautiful. 

She is fascinating. Beautiful. Perfect.


	7. Safer

My breath hitches. For the first time in 53 years of life, I have surprised myself. Shocked myself even. Today, every instinct in my body has instructed me to run. But I disobeyed my own judgement, I ignored the nagging sense of anxiety building in my stomach and I took a metaphorical leap of faith. I didn’t intend too. I was all set to pack my cases and head for the hills but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. For the first time in a while I sat back and asked myself what I really wanted and came to the conclusion that I am not yet ready to leave this strange establishment. I wanted to take a risk, to take myself up to Serena’s room... to let her massage me.

The pain in my back has been agonising for weeks but that was not the sole reason. I like her. I found myself longing for her touch. 

And now, I’m here on her bed, naked bar my bra, from the waist up. Her hands are moving agonisingly slowly over my skin, laden with sweet smelling oil, making me shiver. It’s a long time since anyone has touched me and I’m almost certain I’ve never enjoyed it as much as I am enjoying this. 

She asks my permission (which I eagerly grant) to apply more pressure and I feel some of the knots starting to undo. Some of the pressure is starting to ease. Yet the intense feeling of anxiety remains in my stomach. She’s talking to me... she’s asked about my scar. She’s touching my naked body. This is absolutely insane. For years I have kept every human in my life at arms length and now I’m lay practically naked before a woman I have only just met. 

Im glad when she disrupts my thoughts. My grandmother used to tell me that thinking too much is bad for you. I think she was right. I’ve spent too many years ‘thinking’; maybe it’s time to start ‘doing’. 

“Is this ok? I’m not hurting am I? You’ve gone very quiet”, 

Her voice is smooth and low. Lower than before, I wonder? 

“Yes! No! It’s fine... great...” 

I sense that she wants me to say something more, that she wants to talk to me. This woman does not take comfort in silence in the way I do- so far she has made that very clear. She fills any gaps almost immediately, constantly chattering, making small talk. I wonder if there is I reason behind that... like the reason behind my penchant for solitude? 

I wish I could think of something interesting to say. 

“Why did you give up being a chiropractor?” 

She surprises me and takes a few moments of silence. 

“A family tragedy.” 

She says finally. 

“I stopped... most things for a while. Then I bought the hotel. It totally changed my life!” 

I feel my heart rate quicken. A family tragedy. Everything stopping. Everything changing. That narrative is uncomfortably familiar. 

I have the sudden urge to change the subject. I feel her fingers meet my scar again. I shiver. She’s tracing it. As if reading my mind, she turns the conversation. I wish she hadn’t. 

“Your car accident? How long ago was it?” 

I take a deep breath... this has to stop. 

“Were you driving? Were you alone?” 

This has to stop. 

I roll over and pull myself to a sitting position, shuffling away from her touch. 

“I’m sorry. I... Ive got to go.” 

I dare to lift my gaze from where it rests in my lap. She looks alarmed and I feel guilty, truly, but I can’t stay... can’t endure this onslaught of questions. 

My life is private. My past is private. That’s the way I intend it to remain. 

“Have I done something wrong? Did I hurt you?” 

“No. The massage was great. Thank-you. It’s just...I have to go now. “ 

I’m pulling my clothes on quickly, trying to ignore her questions, trying to block them out so that I don’t stumble and feel compelled to answer. 

“I’m sorry I brought up the accident... sorry I touched your scar...” 

I leave her room and take to the stairs swiftly, hoping that she’s not behind me. 

I hear footsteps and my breath hitches. 

“Bernie? Bernie please... I’m so sorry!” 

I consider carrying on but my feet refuse to follow orders from my brain; So I remain there, rooted to the spot. I turn to face her slowly and am relieved to see that she too has stopped, at the top of the stairs, looking anxiously down at me. 

She’s confused and I’m truly sorry that I’ve made her feel like that. I confuse myself too. 

I force myself to smile at her. It was most certainly not her fault that I bolted and I can’t let her believe that she’s done something wrong. 

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for. It’s just... Me.” 

She opens her lips to speak but I cannot allow this conversation to continue. I cannot allow her to delve into my life any further. For then, I would have to delve into my life....Into my past...and I am not prepared to do that. 

“I’m sorry. I really must go!” 

I feel my cheeks burning red as I slam the bedroom door behind me but I am overcome by relief as I finally let out a long, slow breath. 

Why I am like this? Why must I do this? 

Why do I ruin every good thing that presents itself to me, block out every friendship before it’s had chance to blossom? 

Of course I know the answer to all of these questions. I just choose not to acknowledge them because it is easier. 

Safer.


	8. Voulez-vous

(Serena’s POV)

‘Oh Serena. You absolutely, bloody fool.’

My hands rise to meet my face as I amble wearily back to my room.  
I was over familiar. I asked too much. For some reason, she panicked, ran away. Her behaviour has only served to pique my interest further. 

I was so enjoying massaging her. She’s utterly beautiful... her body is utterly BEAUTIFUL. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The sensation of my skin gently rubbing hers evoked goose pimples on the both of us and sent butterflies to my stomach. I’ll never forget that feeling for as long as I live. 

I have developed feelings for her. Deep feelings. I’ve realised that now. I’m not straight... I never have been. But I’ve buried it inside, suppressed it so deeply, so forcefully. This has not come as a shock... Attraction to people of the same sex is something that has eaten away at me for the best part of me life- there was no way I could hide it forever- certainly not from myself. 

Nothing in my life has ever felt right. Finally, something did. And I’ve already botched it up with my big mouth. 

I cannot let this happen. I will not let her slip away. 

I sit myself in front of my mirror. Bernie does not strike me as a woman who is particularly concerned by aesthetics but it is perhaps more of a procrastination activity than anything else. 

I touch up the concealer that has faded from under my eyes and re-apply some mascara, before adding a layer of my favourite dusky beige lipstick. 

My hair is almost completely grey now. I’m not entirely sure if I’m comfortable with that. Sometimes I barely recognise the woman staring back at me? Maybe that is a good thing- a new start- completely. I shall keep the grey, embrace it... the new me. The new me who acts on impulse, who does things to make herself happy.  
......................................................................

I allow myself a short pause in which I take a deep breath and promise myself that I’m a strong, confident woman. I can do this. 

She answers almost immediately. 

“Hi... Bernie...” 

I’m saddened by her sharp intake of breath, of the way the colour is slowly draining from her face. 

“Bernie. I am so, so sorry about this afternoon. I over stepped the mark. I’m nosey. Always have been! Forgive me?” 

Im wittering, frantically. 

Another deep breath. 

“Can you forgive me? I was a fool, running away like that. It’s just...” 

I intercept. 

“It’s alright. You don’t have to explain yourself. We all have our demons!” 

We share a smile and our bodies gravitate an inch closer. She leans forward and for a minute I think she’s going to put her arms around me but she holds back, prompting me to take the leap. She is stiff and awkward I almost let go, not wanting to overpower her, to make her feel uncomfortable again but to my pleasure, her arms snake around my shoulders and I smile as I feel her body relax against mine. 

I don’t know what is happening... or indeed what is going to happen. I all I know is that I don’t want this to ever stop. I don’t want this embrace to ever break. Our heads are so close together that her cheek brushes against mine when she breathes. Her hair is soft and smooth and smells of coconut. This is perfection. 

“Bernie?” 

“Uh huh?”

She tilts her head back slowly, making her curls bounce. 

“You know my firework picture? The one in your room?” 

She colours as she nods. 

“It’s the first night of the real fireworks- my muse- on the prom tonight... do you fancy accompanying me to see them?” 

She tosses her head and for a second I am sure she is going to decline my offer. But her shake evolves to a wholehearted nod and I’m suddenly SURE that my heart is going to burst. 

“Yes. Yes. I will come. Yes”


	9. premier bisou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is written from the point of view of Bernie.

I stare at the pile of clothes that I have tipped haphazardly onto the bed. I usually choose clothes because of their practicality but this evening, I am keen to make an impression. After much deliberation I opt for a slim-fitted blue polar neck and decide I shall pair it with my trusty black jeans and of course a chunky scarf.

I am nervous, incredibly so but I am also excited. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. The firework illustration catches my eye and I can’t suppress a smile. Tonight, I will be there, under that same sky; with a beautiful, vibrant woman; the artist behind the picture I am gazing at. How perfectly wonderful. 

As promised, she is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs at six pm prompt. I peer over the banister, staying far enough back so that she can’t see me. This is  
it. My last chance to run.

“Bernie? Is that you? Are you coming?”

Her strong, confident voice filters up the stairs, bringing me to my senses. This time, I will be brave. I will not run. I step out of the shadows and make my way down the stairs towards her. 

“Hi! Yes... I was just...I think I’ve forgotten my room key!”

I’m playing for time; I need just a few more minutes to compose myself. 

I go to turn away but she catches hold of my arm, pulling me back gently. Her eyes are dark and wide. 

“You won’t need your room key.” 

My insides start to churn... does she mean? Surely not...

“I own this B&B- I have spares for every room! Come on you fuss pot- we’ll miss our tram!”

She links her arm tightly through mine as we exit the building hastily. I have never walked trough the street with someone linking my arm and I don’t know how I feel about doing so now. Isn’t it a bit forward? We hardly know each other. Or maybe, I’m just backward at this kind of thing. I can’t deny I’m enjoying the sensation of her warm body pressed against my side, shielding me from the bitter north wind that attacks us with gusto as we approach the sea front. 

“Tram?” 

“I thought we’d pop down to Cleveleys- the next coastal town and grab some supper? Then perhaps we’ll walk back through the illuminations in time for the fireworks?” 

I smile and nod and we fall into a companionable silence. She is the one to break it, some minutes later. 

“I love the ocean when it’s like this... ferocious!”

She waves her free hand as she speaks, putting emphasis on the word ‘ferocious’ in a way that makes my stomach knot. 

She’s ferocious. 

The sun is setting rapidly but is barely visible behind a barrier of dark clouds. Blackpool is beginning to light up, wonderfully bright and cheerful in contrast to the dull, brooding sky. I feel as if I’m in a totally different place to the dismal town I arrived in on Monday. This town is alive with colour, with noise, with delicious smells of street food- fish and chips, candy floss.

“Never seen the illuminations before? You look a little mesmerised!” 

I take a deep breath, trying not to blush. 

“No, didn’t I tell you- I’ve never been to Blackpool before. It’s much nicer at night than in the day!” 

“Where are you from? London? Am I allowed to ask that?”

She says the last bit quietly and there’s suddenly a bolt of awkwardness in the air between us. I am glad when I see a tram appear and distract myself by retrieving my purse from my shoulder bag and scrambling for change. 

“Yes. London. How much will I need?”

“It will be incredibly busy- we probably won’t need to get a ticket.”

I soon see what she means. There is only standing room and she clutches my arm again as she pushes through the crowd to a gap near the door. 

“You’d think I’d be used to this by now, I’ve been using these trams for years. I still get so claustrophobic, so panicky when it’s like this!” 

Some of the colour has drained from her face and I try to adjust my positioning to allow her more breathing space. I feel a certain tenderness towards her- it upsets me to see her looking so uncomfortable. I pull my arm gently from her grip and place my hand in hers; squeezing it lightly in an attempt to be reassuring. This is so unfamiliar. But not uncomfortable, I discover. 

“Just keep breathing. Slowly. Look through the window. It’s alright. You’re alright... I’m here- I won’t let anyone push closer. I promise” 

A hint of a smile plays on her delegate features. She reaches up and catches one of my curls between her fingers. Our bodies are pressed close hence the volume of people surrounding us and her face is centimetres from my own. Her eyes are so very beautiful. Even more so at this proximity. Just an inch closer and my lips will be against hers. Every instinct in me tells me to pull back. To turn my head. But I physically can’t. I physically can’t resist her. It’s an insuppressible urge. Our foreheads touch as I tip my head forward, my hands leave hers only to caress her soft cheek as capture her lips with mine. It’s as if the world has stopped turning. All sounds fade away. There is no one here but us. The two of us. We could be anywhere. 

Her lips part deliciously and I dare to let my tongue dance over hers. My stomach is filled with the most incredible feeling- my heart pounding- my head spinning. This is ecstasy. 

The tram slows and grinds to a halt and I let out a whimper of disappointment as she withdraws her mouth. I push in front of her this time, trying to clear the crowd a bit- pulling her gently behind me. 

She takes a long, deep breath as the cold air hits our faces once again and I know she’s relieved to be out in the open. I am glad of the cool air too- sure I was moments from combusting. My cheeks burn never the less and I turn away quickly as the crown dissolves. I feel almost exposed now. 

“Bernie? Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, sure. I’m fine. Are you? Did you... I mean... was that?” 

I’m aware I’m making no sense but she chuckles kindly, turning my body towards her. I still can’t make eye contact. The air is too sharp, too charged. My body is tingling.

She pauses for what feels like an eternity and I’m sure I’m about to cry. I have done the wrong thing. I have made her uncomfortable.

She slips her finger under my chin and forces me to look into her face.

“I did. And it was. Perfect. Beautiful.... unbelievable!” 

Am I really hearing this? I have just kissed a woman, a beautiful woman for the first time in my life and she enjoyed it? I have just spent ten minutes pressed up against another human, kissed her with more passion than I knew I possessed and I enjoyed it. Like I’ve never enjoyed anything before. And I want to do it again. Right now. But the pressure is too great and this time, in complete contrast, I simply cannot.


	10. Fish and Chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the point of view of Serena

Only minutes previously, her warm body was pressed against my own. She was kissing me passionately, stroking my hair, opening her heart to me in the most tender way. Only seconds ago, I was wrapping my arms around her waist; ensuring she knew she had done the right thing, that it was what I wanted. refraining from going too far- from frightening her (I could have quite easily told her it was the most wonderful experience of my life). 

I seem to have failed in that endeavour. She’s closed off once again, refusing to meet my gaze, walking awkwardly by my side as if we’re complete strangers. I suppose we’re not much more. We know a absolutely nothing about each other. yet when we kissed it was as if I had known her all my life. 

“Are you hungry? Shall we eat?” 

I ask, desperate to initiate conversation. 

She nods and I seem to have been successful as she partakes in my small talk willingly as I lead her to the cafe I had in mind. The one set just back from the seafront; the one that serves the most delicious fish and chips for miles around.

It’s always busy in here- no matter what time of the day it is, especially whist it is peak ‘illuminations’ season. It is alive with the pleasant sound of children laughing, families chatting joyfully. 

I wonder if I’ve made the right decision. Bernie would have perhaps preferred somewhere quieter but we’re in now and the smell of frying fish is making my stomach rumble. I lead her over to an empty table by the window and I’m glad when she retrieves a menu and begins to flick through it. 

The decor is rather old fashioned, with straw backed chairs and pastel walls but a new, much more modern piece of art takes centre stage on the wall to our right. I clock the moment her eyes fall on it and watch her expression change to one of inquisition, then to one of mild amusement.

Our eyes lock. 

“That’s one of yours, isn’t it?” 

I nod. I am not usually one for modesty but I feel a pinch at the apples of my cheeks. 

“Yes. They commissioned me a few months back. Looks rather out of place here- don’t you think?” 

“No!”

She says quickly, alternating glances between the picture and my face. 

“I like it! It really livens the place up. I think your work is wonderful, Serena. You have a real talent.” 

Now is her turn to blush.

“Shall I order? you save our table?” 

I ask, deflecting the conversation, setting down my menu. 

“Yes ok... what are you having?” 

“I’m having the chips and haddock special. It’s Divine!” 

I tap my finger on its spot on the menu for emphasis. 

“I’ll have the same!” 

When I return, some ten minutes later after enduring a tiresome queue and squabbling with less than enthusiastic youth at the counter, I notice she is still gazing at the picture. She jumps as I set the tray down in front of her. Sometimes it’s as if she fades off into a whole other world. 

“Thank-you!” 

She smiles as she takes a steaming coffee cup from my hand. 

“How much do I owe you?” 

I shake my head and wave my hand at her attempts to retrieve her purse. 

“No no, you don’t owe me anything! I have the please of your company for the evening- that’s quite enough!” 

“You’re making me feel as if I’m selling myself!”

It is perhaps the first time she’s attempted humour since we met and I surprise myself by laughing a little too enthusiastically. She grins and I feel a surge of something I don’t fully understand, in my stomach. 

Bernie eats much more slowly than I do, pushing chips around her plate and taking long breaks to gulp coffee after every few mouthfuls. I endeavour to slow down, to match her pace- not wanting her to think me greedy. 

“So... you write?” 

She nods slowly. 

“Yes. I have three published novels... Nothing very popular or exciting though- you’ve probably never heard of them!” 

“I’d love to take a look at one?” 

She looks pleased and promises to give me a copy soon. A signed copy if I’m lucky. She’s becoming more relaxed and her bright, funny personality is beginning to shine through more and more. She has real spirit- real wit and as we chat I begin to realise just how intelligent she is. 

“How long have you been an artist?”

I’m incredibly flattered by her enthusiasm for my paintings. 

“I taught myself some years ago. After my daughter died.” 

I wish I hadn’t said it like that... the last thing I want is for her to think I’m after her pity. She reaches across the table and presses her cold hand onto mine.

“Oh Bernie- you’re freezing!” 

She understands me wrong and withdraws her hand. I lean across the table and cover both of her hands with mine, rubbing them, encasing them. 

“I’m so sorry Serena,” 

“Don’t be daft, let me warm you!”

“No... I mean... I’m sorry about your daughter. So very sorry.”

Her eyes are sincere and I have to blink hard to prevent tears from forming.


	11. Fireworks

As we exit the cafe, Serena quizzes me enthusiastically on my enjoyment of our fish and chip supper. I’ve never had a particular interest in food and have a small appetite (diminished further by nerves) but I nod and thank her profusely for buying my supper. 

I feel her body brush against my side as we exit the cafe. She is a very tactile person and (unbelievably) her frequent touches are beginning to become something I look forward to. 

I am still reeling somewhat from what she told me in the cafe. My heart aches for her- knowing that she’s suffered such loss. I, more so than many, know the impact it can have on a person and although I have never been a maternal woman, I imagine the loss of a child must be catastrophic. She shared such a painful aspect of her life with me and I barely said two words in reply. Barely even responded. I am ashamed of myself...which is not by any means an unfamiliar emotion. 

I am taken by surprise as I feel her touch once again and for a moment, I wonder what she’s doing... why she’s... she’s holding my hand. 

“Bernie?” 

She’s surveying my face and I have no idea how it will look in response to her advances. I give her hand a squeeze to ensure she knows she’s not acted out of turn. 

I wish I could tell her the truth. That I’m experiencing that ‘butterfly’ feeling deep in my stomach- the one I was sure was just a fairytale. That my heart is beating as if I’m running and my thoughts are no longer coherent. But I can’t. So I squeeze again and let my side merge into hers as we walk back along the chaotic sea front. I gaze up at the large, eccentric picture lights to the right of us, dazzled by the ones that flash above us, distracted by the street sellers laden with their own colourful hand held versions of the illuminations. She stops suddenly and looks around quickly. She pulls my arm lightly and guides me away from the throng of people watching the lights alongside us. 

Electricity pulses through my veins as she presses my back against the wall, as she captures my lips with hers once again.

When she withdraws we are panting. 

“You’re so beautiful Bernie. So very beautiful.”

Her fingers are in my hair. Her other hand stroking my cheek tenderly. 

“I’m sorry” 

“Sorry? That’s all I’ve wanted since... well... last time we kissed!” 

We are disturbed by a slight commotion to the right of us. A woman, perhaps a few years younger than us has detached from her family and positioned herself a couple of feet away from us- arms folded across her chest. She wears an expression of disgust. 

“Do you have no respect at all? Two WOMEN, cavorting, in broad daylight? My CHILDREN could have seen that! how utterly disgusting!” 

I am in shock. Anger shoots through me like lightning. I hadn’t considered we had an audience...why should I have? What happened was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. How could anyone perceive it as disgusting? 

“You are the disgusting one... you homophobic, interfering cow!”

Serena retorts. 

Within seconds, a man who I presume to be her husband, is approaching us. He’s perhaps almost a foot taller than me (not many men can boast that) and I’m pretty sure he’s heavier than the pair of us put together. 

“How dare you speak to my wife like that... how...” 

He’s in Serena’s face and I can’t bear it. If he touches her I’m sure I’ll kill him. I push myself between them, driving her behind me, putting my hand in front of his face- blocking him. 

“You get the fuck away from her!” 

Serena pulls me backwards, wraps her arms around me. 

A crowd now separates us from that abhorrent couple. 

I turn to face her slowly, not knowing if I’ve over stepped the mark. I’m not entirely sure what just happened... only the fact that I was overcome by an overwhelming urge to protect her- to prevent any harm from coming to her. 

“Thank-you. Thank-you so so much. My hero!” 

For a second I panic, thinking she’s being sarcastic. She isn’t. Her lips are on my cheek this time, tender and caring. I lean away slightly, worried we’ll come up against another onslaught. She cups my face with her hands, her forehead grazing mine. 

“Please, don’t pull away... please don’t be ashamed...” 

“Ashamed? Of us? Serena... I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life!” 

Fireworks begin to crack and sizzle above us, their bright lights fascinating me- the most wonderful nocturnal art. And she is hugging me, holding me close to her. When she brushes her soft lips against mine it is as if a box of fireworks is exploding all at once, inside me. I want HER inside me. For the first time in my life- I am utterly overwhelmed by sensation. The wonderful, rainbow array in the sky reflects my mood most perfectly. 

“Oh Serena. This is utterly beautiful. Just like your painting!” 

She smiles, inducing me to do the same. Her eyes are full and she’s looking at me strangely. I am almost terrified. 

“Bernie? I think... what am I saying. I don’t think- I know. I love you. I love you.”


End file.
